Memory, Snape, and Bird
by dressagegrrrl
Summary: SSHG. AU. The light won, but at what cost? Can a broken Hermione and a reclusive, burned Snape work together to keep a spell worse than any unforgiveable out of the hands of the revived Death Eaters? And does healing mean forgetting?
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This was supposed to be for the Hermione BigBang, but I missed the deadline. Bad Dressagegrrrl. I was going to wait to start posting this until I was done with TPMS, but I'm too fecund! I'm like that woman who had eight kids. Only with fanfic. And I'm not crazy._

_This is darker than TPMS just to warn you guys, although expect happy endings, because that's what I do._

_Everything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling. I'm just making her characters make out._

* * *

She dressed with unseemly haste, the taste of ash in her mouth. Her fingers stuttered down the buttons on her Muggle blouse as she searched the flat for her shoes. The man on the bed was all rounded shoulders and soft flesh as he rolled away from her with a snore. Hermione pressed her mouth into a thin line as she stroked her hair into a messy bun, securing it with precise movements and a pair of decorative hair sticks that had been a present from Snape when she'd graduated from University.

Curling her lip in distaste, she reached out and shook the man lying naked on her bed.

He grumbled, the words muffled by the corner of her pillow. He'd been chewing on it in his sleep.

"Neville, get up. You need to leave now." Hermione's voice was cold, her tone implying, _Don't even _think_ of trying to make this into more than it was_. It was the perfect blend of frigidity and business, and she'd used it successfully to discourage better men than Neville Longbottom.

"Hmmm? Something wrong, 'Mione?" Neville rasped, sleep still choking his voice. He stretched, and the sheet fell away from his chest. She flushed when she saw a bite mark on his left pectoral.

"I have an appointment, and you have to leave. I'm running late so I can't wait for you. I'm sure you can see yourself out." She didn't look at him, choosing instead to lean towards the mirror above her dresser and apply lip gloss.

"What?" Neville rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand. Watching the childlike gesture, Hermione wondered how on Earth she'd let this happen _again_. "You're leaving?"

"Yes, Neville. I am leaving, and more to the point, so are you. Now, you can see yourself out, right?"

"Yeah, that's right, Hermione." His voice was flat. A beat of silence echoed between them, and she fancied it had escaped from beneath his breastbone. "Shall I Floo you, then?"

"I don't think that will be necessary." Hermione slipped her jacket over her shoulders, still staring into the mirror. "I really must run, Neville. You'll be gone before I get back, I expect." She did look at him then, and her glance was shuttered by thick eyelashes. It wasn't friendly.

"I expect so."

She closed the door firmly behind her, refusing to give in to her urge to slam it. Disgust at her own actions trailed behind her, clinging to her feet like her shadow.

…_HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…_

"You're late, Granger."

Snape sat in the coffee shop, blinking at her from behind a thin pair of wire-framed glasses. His black hair was tied into a queue which tumbled past his shoulders. He'd shucked the spectacle of his black, buttoned-up Wizarding robes with the same relief he'd demonstrated when he cast off his double-agent persona. What was left behind in the wake of the Voldewars was a grouchy git of a man, but just a man, nonetheless.

"Yes, yes, yes." Hermione waved her hand dismissively. "I was in the midst of important research with Longbottom and I couldn't get away." She slid into the booth across from him, greedily cradling her double macchiato, but allowing her leather messenger bag to tumble to the floor next to her. Taking a sip, she rolled the full-flavored espresso around her mouth. _Mmmmm._

She looked up to find Snape staring at her, his head cocked to the side, his cheek resting against his curled knuckles. "I see. Important research for your Potions mastery?"

"Absolutely." She didn't meet his eyes, fearing that he'd see a reflection of Neville's pale-as-paste flesh lumped under her covers.

Instead, she took a moment to glance around the brightly-lit coffee shop. The walls were a tasteful sienna, and here and there, glass cases hung spotlighted with gentle _Illuminatum_ spells designed to both display and protect the items encased within them. Hermione's eyes flitted from each box to the next, taking in a spare pair of Dumbledore's glasses, a replica of Harry's phoenix feather wand, a photograph of the Golden Trio from fifth year. She bit her lip when she saw Ron's Quidditch uniform from sixth year.

"Why do we come here? This is… this is just wretched." Her voice did not shake. "It's called _Taste of Triumph_, for Merlin's sake."

Snape continued to study her. His eyes were dark and impartial, and he hid his mouth behind his coffee cup. "If I were the comforting and truthful sort, I'd tell you it's because you want to support your misguided friend, Ms. Weasley in her entrepreneurial endeavor. If I were the grouchy, but no less truthful sort, I'd tell you it's because you're bloody morbid, Granger."

She humphed and her brows drew together.

"However, instead of answering your question, I am going to deftly sidestep it _thusly_: Granger, you have an enormous love bite right there." The dark-haired man leaned forward and stroked his fingertip down the sensitive spot just beneath her left ear. "Tell me. What exactly _were_ you doing to prepare for your Potions mastery?"

Hermione batted his hand away, irritated. "Bite me, Snape."

A slow smile curled his mouth, so faint that no one other than Hermione would have even recognized it as such. "It appears that Longbottom already did."

She drummed her slim fingers on the table in front of her.

Snape's lips curled higher, and he nodded at her macchiato. "If you liked your coffee like you liked your men, you would be eating a buttered crumpet or some sort of fattening pastry." Hermione watched his eyes crinkle behind his glasses.

Sighing magnificently, she reached down to her leather backpack and pulled out a white paper baggie, translucent in spots from grease and butter. She ripped it down the middle and began eating an almond pastry. "You," she spoke with her mouth full, "Are a prat." On the 'p' in 'prat' she sprayed him with a healthy amount of crumbs.

"Ah ah ah. Be nice to me, Granger. Be very nice. After all, I have something that you want." Snape lifted a paper-wrapped bundle into his lap and ran his hand down the length of it. His eyes flicked to hers and he smirked. "Trust me. You want this very much."

Hermione swallowed and dragged a paper napkin over the corners of her mouth. "Is that… Is that _it_?" Her gaze latched onto his long fingers as they caressed the item in his lap. "Oh, please! Snape, can I see it?" She bit her lip and tucked her hands beneath her legs so that she wouldn't grab it from him in impatience.

"We've looked two _years_ for this, Granger. Clear the table. We can't risk damaging it." Although his voice was calm and quiet, Hermione could see the excited tension in the muscles of his arms as he helped her to stack their coffee cups and wipe down the tabletop. Without giving it a second thought, she slid over to sit next to him.

Their eyes met, and then Snape began to peel the paper off the parcel. He flipped the edges open like a blooming flower, revealing a mid-sized, leather-bound book with a seal on the front. Tears choked Hermione as she reached out a reverent finger to stroke the engraving on the seal.

"It's her raven, Morwyn." Snape's voice was reverent.

Tears prickled at the back of her eyes as he eased the book open, displaying the diary and personal Potions journal of Hildebrandt Frost. Despite its advanced age, the paper remained crisp and the sharp lines of the renowned Potions mistress's handwriting stood in stark black relief against the page.

"Look at the date! November 23, 1822." Hermione sniffed and traced her finger over it in wonder. "Wherever did you find it?"

His black eyes followed her fingertips. When he spoke, his voice was brusque. "I found it with hard work and diligence. You should try it sometime."

"Was it your vast and frightened network of used booksellers across the globe? Former students, perhaps?"

"Nothing like that. The Ministry finally broke the wards on the Avery estate. Shacklebolt was kind enough to let me take first crack at the library. This was shoved between a children's book on Muggle-baiting and a book of household charms from 1964. The idiots had no idea what they were sitting on." His pale hand reverently slid across the pages.

"Snape – _Severus_ – thank you. You've no idea what it means to me."

"I do." The edges of his mouth tilted up. "I do indeed, _Hermione_, and that is why I know how much I can charge you for this particular volume."

That shocked a laugh out of her, and she sat up, smacking him familiarly on the arm. "Oh, look! Here are the research notes on her development of the Polyjuice potion. The sheer amount of detail is amazing!"

They sat shoulder to shoulder, silent except for the occasional interested note curling in the back of their throats. The air between them was companionable and warm, their hands brushing accidentally as they flipped pages. Finally, they sighed and sat up. Hermione arched and rubbed the small of her back with a groan of contentment.

"It's nearly eleven. Ginny will be closing up soon," Hermione yawned. Her jaw cracked and she rubbed her eyes. "Can I take this?" She gestured to the diary in front of her.

"Of course." He wrapped it back up in its protective, oiled paper and handed it to her. "Will you be by the shop tomorrow? You're scheduled for the evening shift."

"I'll be there, Snape." She patted him absently on the hand, and he slid it into his lap without looking at her. Her mind was already on her plans to spend the evening curled in front of her fire with Mistress Frost's journal, so she barely noticed the soft smile he directed at her.

She was already on her way to the door, the precious book clutched to her chest.

* * *

_A/N: Like it, love it, hate it, review it!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Nothing you recognize is mine. Alas. HP is all JK Rowlings'._

_Hermione's the walking wounded. Let's not judge her too harshly yet._

* * *

She felt like a drowned rat when she threw herself into the bookstore to escape the pounding rain. Her hair clung to her face, and Hermione could feel that contrary to all laws of nature, her curls managed to remain frizzy even when waterlogged. She cursed as she tried to ring it out.

"Dripping is not allowed near the stacks." Snape's voice came from the rare book room.

"Arse," Hermione muttered.

"Also, cursing is not allowed when one forgets one's a witch." The dark-haired man approached her, wiping his dirty hands on a rag and smirking at her disheveled state. "Really, Hermione. You couldn't be bothered to cast an _Impervious_ charm? Flitwick would be crushed that his favorite student was so lackadaisical."

"Sod off, Snape. I've had an absolutely rubbish day."

He cast several quick drying charms on her. His mouth quirked briefly before he ran his palm down his face as if molding it into a more sober expression. "Of course, Granger. Had much of a chance to look over the diary?"

"Noooo." The tone of her voice was belligerent. "I was too busy dodging Neville and his five _thousand _floo calls."

The dark wizard snorted and said, "It's not like you have anyone to blame for that but yourself."

Hermione growled in frustration. "Do you think I don't know that?"

"You've always been a moderately intelligent girl, so I'm quite sure you do. That's why I'm confused that you continue to sleep with the lump." Snape watched her from the corner of his eye. He frowned suddenly and slung the dirty rag over his shoulder. "Blast it all, Hermione! Did you rearrange the charms section again? I have asked you _repeatedly_ to conform to my shelving methodology and you continue to defy me! Need I remind you that this is _my _shop and that, contrary to your misguided beliefs, you are my employee!"

"But it makes so much more sense!! Alphabetical by author works for every _other_ section, but charms should be by subject heading! The way you like it arranged, it's impossible to find books about specific spells. They're all lumped together."

"You arrange books in the manner I wish for them to be arranged. End of story!" Snape's brows pulled together, and the corner of his mouth twitched in vexation.

"Oh, come on! You're just afraid to admit that I'm right about this! Just because I'm your former apprentice doesn't mean that I can't make improvements on a system that is rigid and outdated!" Hermione placed her hands on her hips.

"It has nothing to do with that and everything to do with…"

A small cough interrupted them. The witch whirled around and immediately blanched.

Neville Longbottom stood there with a fistful of bruised roses. His eyes were round and his hands shook slightly. "Hermione, are you arguing with _Professor Snape??_"

"Gods, you are a glutton for punishment, Longbottom. Hermione, go talk to the trembling blancmange, and I'll take care of putting this shelf to rights. Go! _Shoo!_" he said, ignoring her pleading eyes and turning back to the Charms section.

The curly-haired witch stalked over to Neville, her mouth drawn tight at the corners. He watched her, his sloping shoulders curved and defensive.

"I… like what you've done with your hair, Hermione."

"My hair? I haven't done anything with…" She reached up to stroke the locks at the sides of her face. Instead of the tame curls she expected to feel, her fingers tangled in rabid poodle frizz. Blanching, she conjured a mirror. "Why that bastard!" she said, smirking and remembering Snape's small grin when he'd cast the drying charms that had caused her hair to fluff out like a mortally offended tabby.

Seeing her smile, Neville's shoulders relaxed marginally. "I brought you flowers, Hermione." He thrust them at her.

"Oh!" The bruised roses sagged in his fist, and the petals gave out a cloying, overlush smell that tickled the back of her throat. She gathered them to her.

Neville scratched his head, looking puzzled. "They don't look like much anymore. It's a new variety I was working on, but I guess the extra push I gave them on their color and fragrance shortened their life expectancy once cut." A faint flush creeped over his cheeks. "Sorry. Dead roses aren't very romantic are they?"

Hermione's face was turned from him. "Not really."

"So, I thought that if you weren't busy later, we might…"

"But I am," the witch cut in. "Busy, that is." She turned fierce eyes on him, and Neville took a step back.

"Hermione…"

"I'm not sure why you expected differently. I told you going into this that I'm not interested in a relationship, didn't I?"

The wizard sighed and ran a hand through his floppy hair. He suddenly seemed much older, and Hermione watched as the weakness that had characterized him throughout their interactions melted from him. His shoulders were straighter and the kicked-puppy expression was gone from his eyes. "You know this isn't healthy. You know that your _behavior_ isn't healthy, Hermione. You can't go through life shoving everyone out."

The girl's teeth were suddenly bared in a vicious smile. "Silly Neville. I'm not shoving everyone out. I'm just shoving _you_ out."

"You know it's not just me. What about Ginny? What about Draco?" The man reached out and wrapped his fingers around her shoulder. "Hermione, you know this isn't what Ron would have wanted for you. This solitude."

She reared back as if he'd slapped her, suddenly feeling as if his gentle hand was crushing her ribcage so she couldn't take a breath. "Who do you think you are? How _dare _you? Did you think that you could just slide into Ron's place just because he's no longer here? You're nothing to me but a fuck, Neville Longbottom."

His eyes were glued to a spot above her left shoulder. "See, that's so strange. I thought I was your friend." He met her gaze. "I can't do this anymore. I thought… I thought I would give it one more shot, but this isn't going anywhere, is it?"

"I think you need to leave now."

He ran his hand over her hair with a tenderness that she never allowed him to express normally. "Goodbye, Hermione. I hope you find some peace."

"Oh for god's sake, get OUT, Neville."

The bell over the door echoed in the empty store.

Hermione's hand came up to cover her mouth. She held her palm there for a moment, as if cupping the words that struggled to spill out long enough for her to swallow them back down into her gullet.

Her shoulders began to shake and great, gulping sobs of laughter escaped. When Snape grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into his embrace, the laughter shattered and Hermione was suddenly crying into his slender chest.

"What's wrong with me, Snape? I think I might be broken." The words were choked against the cashmere of his sweater.

"There, love. Aren't we all?" His face was buried in her messy curls and his eyes slid shut.

**…_HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…_**

_3 Years Earlier:_

The name of the bookstore was stenciled neatly on the glass windows in gold: _Snape's Used and Rare Books._ Hermione stopped and gave a sharp bark of laughter at the enormous text scrawled underneath it. The notice – _NO TALKING_ – was easily twice as large as the store's name, and it was scrawled in the Potions master's spidery script, clearly spelled there in a moment of pique.

Gathering her courage, she entered the shop.

The interior fit the former head of Slytherin to a "t." Lush green carpet stretched from wall to wall, punctuated by dark mahogany bookshelves and comfortable leather chaises. The potions Master was lurking like a shadow near the dark magic section.

Saying he wasn't happy to see her was a monumental understatement.

"What the fuck are you doing here, for Merlin's sake?" he snarled.

"Are you kidding me? Green and silver, Snape? Way to feed into a stereotype." Hermione was amused and looked around at the décor pointedly.

"Get. Out." He stalked towards her, the effect ruined by his lack of sweeping robes. Snape halted, his crooked, hooked nose mere inches from her own.

"I will, but not until I've said my peace." She willed her voice to stay level and calm despite the wash of his breath which fanned her face, causing the small tendrils around her temples to sway. It smelled like licorice whips, and Hermione felt a slightly hysterical giggle bubble in her chest at the thought of Snape eating sweets while looking at dark magic texts. She quashed it.

"I am not interested in anything you have to say, Granger." He stared at his former apprentice, his black eyes gleaming like beetle carapaces. "Are you so desperate for companionship in the wake of Mr. Potter's and Mr. Weasley's deaths that you'd seek it here? With me?"

Hermione's mouth turned down at the corners, and she was forced to look away so the dark wizard wouldn't see the haunted look in her eyes.

Snape hissed and ran a hand down his face, the palm briefly massaging his brow before he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. She got the impression that he regretted his biting words. "Look, girl. The war is over. It's done. We've won. Can't I just be left here amongst my books? Can't I move forward and leave the past in the past? Don't I deserve it? How am I supposed to do that with nosy Gryffindors popping up like sodding daisies left and right?"

The witch eyed him steadily, her head cocked like an inquisitive bird. "Of course you deserve it." She sighed and slumped into a leather chaise near the stacks. "I'd quite like a hidey hole like this myself. It's quiet here, and the books…" Hermione waved her hand towards the leather tomes around them as if no further explanation was needed. "If you are able to find your peace in this bookshop, then I have to admit that I am jealous."

Snape sat at the other end of the couch, his posture stiff, his hands tapping on his thighs. "Granger. What. Do. You. Want?"

She studied her finger nails. It had taken her a long time to decide to talk to him, and now that the moment had finally arrived, her throat was tight and a heavy ball of ice had settled in her stomach.

"I came to tell you that I know." A flush crept up her neck. "I know what you tried to do for Ron. I know what it cost you."

Silence hung between them, a noxious cloud of misunderstanding and pain. Hermione reached towards him slowly as if he were a dog she wasn't sure was friendly.

Clearly, whatever he'd expected to hear from her, that wasn't it. The potions Master rocketed to his feet, tucking his hands into his sleeves. His customary grace failed him and he stumbled away from her. "I haven't any clue what you're talking about, Granger." His face was turned towards the back wall, and he ran a finger down the spine of a book. With business-like efficiency, he removed it and reshelved it in its appropriate location.

"Poppy told me."

"Madam Pomfrey is getting on in years. The war was harder on her than many because of her age. The poor witch finally lost her marbles, it appears."

Hermione heard how he choked around the words.

"Professor Snape!" Her voice cracked in the air between them. "I know. You… drenched Ron's body in your magical signature. I _know_."

His shoulders slumped, and he raised his hands to hang in front of his face. Snape's palms were shiny with tightened red scar tissue. She watched him clench them tightly and tuck them into his armpits in a protective gesture that had tears prickling the backs of her eyes. When he turned back to face her, Snape's face was cool, but his eyes blazed in agony and remorse.

"I knew how much he meant to you, Granger. He was all you bloody talked about during your apprenticeship." Snape paused as if remembering. "Weasley just didn't have enough magic to keep going. He'd expended too much power trying to keep Dolohov and Avery off Potter while he dueled the Dark Lord."

The witch tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, allowing her tears to streak down her cheeks. "I know."

Snape stalked forward, his shoulders hunched as if to protect himself from her pain. "By the time he fell, it was too late. I tried out there on the battle field. I poured my own magic into him to keep him alive, but it burned, Hermione. He was already dead. Weasley was dead before he even fell."

"I know."

Snape's black eyes pinned her. "I _tried_."

"I know."

He stared at her, his mouth twisted.

Hermione reached for one of his hands, turning the burned palm up and bringing it to her cheek. It was ridged and inflexible. The burns had robbed him of his dexterity and his living as a potions Master. Snape jumped as if burned when one of her tears slipped down to trail over his fingers.

"Thank you for trying. I know what you lost because of it."

They leaned against each other in the quiet of the bookstore.

Hermione never really left after that.

* * *

_A/N: Like it, love it, hate it, review it._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Harry Potter is JK Rowling's baby. This fanfic is solely for my enjoyment, and as such, I make no money from it._

**

* * *

****Chapter Three**

After Neville left, Snape shut the shop down early.

"You are so lucky that most of your business is mail order." Hermione sipped the tea he offered her, allowing the warmth to soothe the tightness of her throat.

"Yes, well. You seem to be the only person who'd rather come buy a book from the Greasy Git face-to-face rather than through the post." His voice was satisfied, and it brought a small smile to Hermione's face.

"Your evil plan worked, I see. You never have to see another dunderhead ever again if you don't wish to."

"You're mistaken, Hermione. After all, _you_ are remarkably persistent."

They turned small, knowing smiles towards their tea cups.

She sank deep into the leather couch with a sigh. Outside the sky darkened and lamps from neighboring Diagon Alley stores began to glow.

"So, I'm pretty screwed up, huh?" Her voice was small.

Snape leaned forward and set his tea cup on the table between them. "I can't tell you how honored I am to have been invited to this pity party." He sat back and rested his cheek on his closed fist, the scarred palm turned away from her.

"I mean it. There's something wrong with me. Ever since Ron died. I'm just… off. Wrong."

The dark-haired man watched her carefully.

"I knew, Severus… I _knew_ I was being a right bitch to Neville, but somehow, it was just so _important_ that I keep him at arms length. I don't want anyone that close to me." She bit her lip and looked at Snape with a pleading expression.

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

Hermione walked around the table and sank down next to him. She tilted her head so that it rested on his shoulder. The older man allowed it, sighing in exasperation.

"I mean, it's obvious what the problem is, isn't it?" Her voice was sad. She tried to wriggle under his arm, but Snape tightened his hold on his own biceps, keeping himself closed to her.

"Stop, Granger. I'm not a _cuddler_." He said the last word with the same horror he would have shown a Weasley sweater with a cuddly-looking Voldemort emblazoned on the front.

"What are you talking about? You hug me all the time!"

"I've hugged you twice. Ever. And both of those times it's because you were sobbing like a ninny. I'm concerned enough about the humidity level in here without adding your waterworks on top of it. Leather rots, you know." The dark wizard looked disgruntled, his eyes on the tea resting on the table.

Hermione waved her hand brusquely in the air. "What I'm trying to say is that it's pretty obvious what my problem is." She cleared her throat, and when she began to speak again, her voice was crowded with regrets. "Harry and Ron gave up their lives for the cause. How can I just… move forward with my life when they can't? And Ron and I were so… I just… How could I even think about trying to replace him with someone else?"

She turned to look at him and noticed how tightly he held his shoulders and how thin he'd pressed his lips. Snape stood suddenly, and Hermione shivered, missing his warmth. He walked away, putting distance between them and presenting her with his back.

"I can't believe how blind you are sometimes, Granger."

"Hey!"

"Do I look like I can shed light on moving on? Are you expecting pearls of wisdom to fall from my mouth?" Presenting her with his profile, he began to rearrange the Charms section once more. "For Merlin's sake, girl. It's called Survivor's Guilt, and do you really think I'm free of it myself?"

Reclining and tucking her feet up onto the couch, Hermione watched him organize the shelf. His movements were jerky and flustered, like a marionette whose strings had been pulled too hard. "I am well aware that none of us escaped unscathed. It's just that you seem like you are so much happier than you were when I first knew you."

Snape turned to her, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Not being _Crucioed_ half to death several nights a week does wonders for a man's spirits. Also, I feel marginally less tense now that I know for sure that Voldemort failed in his attempt to commit genocide!"

"On your list of pros, don't forget that black is back in style, Snape." Her voice was teasing. "Your bat persona might actually become fashionable."

The edges of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile, but he scowled instead. "Don't do that, Hermione. You brought this up. Let's finish it."

"Yes, of course. It's just… let's not yell about it. Can't we discuss it? I haven't the heart to fight with you. I'm tired and I feel like a giant, walking wound at the moment."

His nostrils flared as he exhaled. "Fine."

Hermione carefully examined her nails. They were ragged and bitten to the quick. "So, you're saying that despite the positive changes in your life since the war ended, you're not happy?"

He slid a slender white volume onto the shelf with tender care. "Yes, well… no. I'm as happy as I'm going to get. I like my shop and working here with you. I _love_ that I'm not teaching dunderheads any more. But it's not enough, really. This life is full of the shadows of real happiness. Even worse, I feel guilty for even having the shadows. What about our dead? Dumbledore? Or Lupin? All of the children I taught who didn't make it. Can you even imagine the guilt I feel that there were students who fell to the Dark Arts that were in _my_ Defense Against the Dark Arts class?" Snape cleared his throat and very carefully did not look at her. "And others who never made it from the first war. Promises broken. Penance denied."

Silence embraced the room, and it was a long moment before Hermione spoke again.

"So what do you do?"

Snape sighed and glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "You just keep living, you daft bint. As best as you can."

…_HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…HGSS…_

After imparting his pithy words of wisdom, Snape ignored Hermione for the rest of the afternoon. He grumped about the store like a moody black stork, responding to her attempts to converse with him rarely if at all. She recognized his stormy expression from the dark days of her Potions apprenticeship when the war was at its height. Snape was brooding. He'd even taken his hair out of its queue so that it could hang in shiny black curtains in front of his face.

It bothered her.

On one hand, she understood that he wasn't actually upset with her. Snape had never been the sort who liked to hold hands and discuss his feelings. However, the way he'd closed himself off from her made her feel isolated. He'd snapped shut like a mousetrap the instant she hit a sensitive spot.

Well, no reason to stick around if he was moping. Nothing would bring the man around once he'd settled in for a good long brood.

She sighed and gathered her things. The sky was still ominous, promising further rain throughout the night. Remembering Snape's earlier admonition, she cast an _Impervious_ charm before flicking her fingers in farewell towards the dour wizard. Snape grunted as she left.

Hermione walked quickly down the narrow street that connected the bookstore to Diagon Alley. The cobblestones were slick from the rain, and the heels of her boots thunked with each step.

Holding Neville's hurt expression close to her chest, she wondered how things had fallen so far. She'd wounded him deliberately, without a second thought. When had she become that person? Keeping people at arm's length was one thing. Lashing out and wounding people she'd known since she was eleven – a war compatriot, even – that was something else entirely.

Maybe she needed help.

There was no shame in it, she knew. Well, she knew it in the sense that she wouldn't hesitate to direct a friend to counseling. She'd even believe the words wholeheartedly when she told that same friend not to be ashamed. Hermione had just never expected to need help herself.

Hermione Granger shouldn't. She was the brains of the Golden Trio, a war heroine, and the first woman to pursue her Potions mastery since 1926. To need counseling felt almost like… failure.

A shuddering sigh escaped her chest. Of course, she also was a combatant in the bloodiest Wizarding War to touch Britain's shores since the 1940's, had lost her lover on the battlefield, and was part of a minority group targeted for extermination.

Her eyes studied her toes as they scuffed along the street beneath her feet. She was so deeply entrenched in her problems, turning them over and dissecting them as if they were dispassionate logic puzzles to solve, that Hermione failed to notice the two men who followed her.

She would have screamed when she was seized and forced into an alleyway, but a blunt, calloused hand clamped painfully over her mouth.

When she and her attackers were deep enough in the shadows, her attacker pressed her up against the wall, his hand so tight against her mouth that Hermione's teeth ached.

"Hello, Hermione." His voice was playful and cruel. Crackling pops from his lungs peppered his speech, making him stop to take great, wheezing gulps of air. His face was obscured by a leather mask that covered all but his clacking yellow teeth framed by peeling lips that hung loose as he spoke. Hermione shuddered. The condition of the man's skin combined with the mask that was pulled tight across his features gave her the impression of a corpse cobbled together with bits of leather and dust and irresistible will. "Long time no see," he whispered, his breath causing her curls to sway.

Hermione said nothing, her eyes darting back and forth between her two attackers. The other man was dressed in Death Eater's robes, the upper portion of his face covered by a silver mask surrounded by a corona of curling red-brown hair.

He stepped forward, his bright blue eyes warm as he pressed the cold silver of the mask against her neck and inhaled deeply. "Mmmm. You smell divine, Granger. Like old books and peppermint." Hermione felt his tongue drag a slippery path from her shoulder up to her ear. "God, it's been too long since I've had a woman."

She cried out in disgust and twisted to get away from him, but he laughed and pressed her squirming body tighter against the wall. "You feel delicious… so nice and trim. What with your bookish habits, I always figured you would run to fat. It's nice to know that I'm still wrong occasionally."

"Focus," his companion wheezed.

"Get your hands off me," Hermione shrieked, struggling to thrust her knee between the braced legs of her captor. The brick wall behind her wasn't smooth, and she could feel the bulging edges of the mortar snag her hair when she pressed away from the erection nudging against her hip.

"None of that, darling," Silver Mask murmured. He bit her sharply, and she could feel the blood welling and running down her neck.

"Focus!" Leather Mask hissed, and the brown-haired man stumbled away from her, clutching his cheek where Hermione could see a red imprint of a hand.

"All right," Silver Mask sulked. "But I get to have her after."

"Fine! Who cares as long as we get what we need?" The man turned back to her, his lips hanging slack and moist. His breath popped and whistled as he asked, "Where is it, bitch? Where's the journal?"

Hermione blinked, suddenly very conscious of the weight of her bag. She cocked her head and did her best to appear confused. "What journal?"

Silver Mask cocked his fist and slugged her sharply in the jaw. He looked at her, tilted his head appraisingly, and punched her once more for good measure.

Hermione tasted blood and concentrated on holding back her tears. Her heart pounded against her ribcage as she tried to calculate the likelihood that she would escape from this situation intact and with the journal. Thinking became increasingly difficult as she stared at her attacker as he licked her blood from his knuckles.

"Now, now. None of your stories, Hermione." Silver Mask watched her, his blue eyes guileless. Never moving his gaze, he spoke to his ally. "She never was a very good liar, was she?"

Leather Mask laughed, a choking, wheezing sound.

Hermione shook her head to clear the darkness from the edges of her vision. The pain in her jaw sparked down to her belly, causing a wave of nausea. Hermione swallowed tightly and licked her bottom lip.

Silver Mask tut tutted. "Well, we certainly don't have time to deal with a stubborn Mudblood."

"Definitely not."

"Who are you?" she said with gritted teeth.

Leather Mask smirked and raised a silver-toned flask. "Stop asking stupid questions. Drink this." The edge was lifted to her lips, but before he could force Hermione to take a sip, the smell of the potion contained within hit her nose.

Her stomach, already unsettled from the pain in her jaw, tightened and she vomited on the ground between them.

"Fuck!" Silver Mask shouted. He danced out of the way of the river of sick that was flowing in the spaces between the cobblestones. "That potion's expensive, bitch." Turning to his compatriot, he said, "Veritaserum works just as well topically. Splash it in her face."

Hermione gagged as she was covered in the potion, pressing her lips together tightly. As Leather Mask screwed the cap back on, she watched as a spare drip of potion slid over his thumb. He tucked the flask away and casually grasper her around her neck. "You'll answer the questions we ask now, won't you?"

She nodded, but Hermione's mind raced. She felt no compulsion to tell the truth. _Why?_ She swallowed painfully, her throat struggling to work despite the hand smashed against her windpipe.

Leather mask snarled, "Now, I'll ask you again. Where is Hildebrandt Frost's journal?"

Her wand was tucked in her right sleeve. Could she curl her hand enough to touch it? Touching it might be enough to help her Apparate, but the reprobate with the Leather Mask held her so firmly that she knew she'd bring him with her via side-along no matter where she went.

"Come now, Hermione. Where's the journal?" Silver Mask crooned.

_It was in her bag._ "I have no idea."

"Bitch, don't lie," her captor snarled.

Why wasn't the Veritaserum affecting her? Was it a bad batch? She watched as the trail on Leather Mask's hand dried, and his eyes began to glaze. _Apparently not._

"I have no idea where it is. I've been looking for ages, but I'm no closer today than I was two years ago." The hand around her throat loosened and the man in front of her swayed slightly as he began to suffer from the effects of the potion. Leather Mask's eyes became soft and confused, and Hermione felt an unexpected twinge of recognition.

Silver Mask shouted, "Come on! We _know_ she's lying. What are you waiting for?"

"'Mione?" His voice was confused and the man's restraining hand fell from her neck to dangle loosely between them.

With a burst of speed she would never have suspected she possessed, Hermione jumped away from the two men and ran for the mouth of the alley. Relying upon the skills she'd acquired from her years in Dumbledore's Army, she deflected two Stunners cast in rapid succession and sent back a powerful Jelly Legs Jynx. When she reached the turn to Diagon Alley, she whirled back to face her tormenters.

"_Who are you?_" she shouted, tears streaming down her face.

Leather Mask turned dark green eyes on her. "_Harry Potter_," he moaned.

Hermione Apparated and fell sobbing to the floor of Snape's book shop.

* * *

_A/N: Like it, love it, hate it, review it._


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